by D. R. Perry
She hugs me, complete with patting on the shoulder and everything. It’s totally genuine, but Eunice has an ulterior motive for the friendly display of affection.
“Vampire, huh?” she murmurs. “It’s okay. None of us at Stout are completely mundane.”
“I didn’t know you were a magician.” I stiffen, but Eunice gives my shoulder one more solid pat.
“I’m just psychic, but it’s all good.”
“Okay.”
There’s really nothing else I can say to that. And at the end of the hug, I realize that’s fine. Everything’s hunky-dory because that’s how Eunice Terry gives my introduction to her class. A few of the kids blink owlishly or stare with slightly out-of-focus eyes at me. I realize they’re checking to confirm my undead status. But once they stop, each one either nods or gives me a grin.
My identity isn’t so secret here at Stout Academy. Instead of the pit of dread I thought would form in my gut, my lips turn up. Sparky scuttles through the door with some papers. I fill in my name, address, phone, and driver’s license numbers, then sign it. He hustles back out with it, nearly running into Zack on the way.
“Watch yourself.” Zack snarls. A ruddy shimmer leaves his lips along with the harsh words.
Sparky says nothing, but his eyes are glued to his own feet.
“Ease up on the kid, would you?” I give Zack a side-eye. I’ve been literally jerked around by one of Milano’s spell-singing incantations before and hated it, even if it did net us a win against the bad guys.
“He’s not even enrolled here.”
“Well, nobody’s complaining except you.” Eunice stands between us, hands in fists on her hips. “Let the orphans have their support salamander, Zack.”
“I’m already doing them a favor, but whatever.” This time, the utterance is silver. He’s undoing the command. I hope.
As we get on with giving one-on-one advice about reading the script before choosing an audition piece, I come to a fundamental understanding. The three adults in the room are all here for different reasons.
For Eunice, it’s simply that teaching is as natural to her as breathing. I’m there because my newly-extended family needs me. I’d bet dollars to donuts it’s neither of those for Zack, and I can’t even eat donuts. It’d be easy to assume this is his usual showboating, like at the audition for Nine. I could just chalk it up to him being a showoff, but my gut tells me it’s deeper than that.
He’s taking my welcome presence here way too hard, and I feel the long-static frenemy vibe turning into something more sour. Zack’s got a reason for being here besides self-promotion. It’s enormous and important, and I have no clue what it could be.
Maybe he can let it go and stick with the uneasy truce that’s stretched between us all these years. Stretchy things have a bad habit of snapping back, though. Hopefully it’ll only hit me if the worst even happens.
Of course, with my luck, I can practically count on that.
Chapter Twelve
Scott drops me at the main entrance. Seconds later, I’m walking up from the parking lot behind Kent County Hospital, heading toward the annex building and the office of one Doctor Young, Psychiatrist. A plume of smoke from under the bus shelter tells me Frankie’s there waiting. And Raven’s earlier text message said more; how my friend never came home after the canceled appointment.
Plastering a smile on my face is easy because I always had more reasons to grin than otherwise in my breathing life. The unlife is a whole other matter entirely. Maybe Frankie’s not the only one who needs therapy.
He puts the cigarette out on the nearly smooth sole of his threadbare Converse All-Stars. I can tell right away he’s been chain-smoking. My first impulse is to get on his case because I don’t want him upstairs in the Oncology ward in a handful of years like Maury. But I don’t. Some people have got to deal with the brain before the body. Frankie’s neglected his mental health for his whole life, through no fault of his own. This is a legitimate emergency, he’s in the middle of a potentially fatal medical crisis.
Whoever says mental illness is all in the head like it’s somehow imaginary can just leave now.
Get out. I mean it.
Stop following my adventures and take a flying fuck at a donut. I’m not sorry if that sounds harsh because it’s supposed to. The brain is an organ in the body, and it can get sick like any other. Just because it’s in the head doesn’t mean it’s not real, like the subversive old wizard said. And Frankie can’t ignore his disease without consequence any more than Maury can bail on chemotherapy.
Anyway, rant over.
“Tino, thank God.”
“He’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Dude. You’re too hard on yourself.” Frankie chuckles. I’ve known him long enough to understand that it’s actually a well-disguised sob.
“Come on, we’re going in.”
“You’re awfully gung-ho.”
“Well, yeah. I probably need this too.”
“Huh.” Frankie trots to keep up with me. “How?”
“I used to go to church when I had a problem.” I pull the door open and step inside, holding it. “Can’t anymore, you know why.”
“Oh. Right.” He takes two steps past me, then freezes in front of the door to the office.
Usually, we take turns opening and holding doors for each other as part of our platonic lifemates vibe, but not this time. Maybe it’s something like a metaphor for our entire interpersonal dynamic. Or whatever is between Frankie and me.
“I can’t.”
“You can’t, or you can’t even?”
“Even.”
“Okay, so odd, then. I’ll even for both of us.” I open the next door and stand aside. Because like it or not, I can’t fight this particular battle of Frankie’s for him. All I can do is be here so he doesn’t have to do it alone.
He takes a deep breath, swallows, sets his jaw. Clenches it, actually. And then, he takes measured steps forward, mumbling.
“One. Three. Five. Seven.”
Yeah. That’s Frankie Pickering there, reciting odd numbers as a way to defy his anxiety. It’s like he’s got armor made of nonsense, which is better than nothing at all, I guess. And it’s familiar. But for once, I’m not stuck wondering how. Because I totally recognize that he’s adopted my own tactic.
“Proud of you, my dude.”
I don’t pat him on the back as he shuffles past me. Maybe it’d seem condescending or belittling. But mostly it’s because I know a thing or three about nonsensical armor. It’s brittle when you first start girding it on. Breaking it just when Frankie needs it most is not an option.
The woman perched behind the desk is plump, with straight hair falling to her shoulders in streaks of black and white. She tilts her head up, gaze lingering on Frankie as she nods in my general direction. There’s something more than natural about her, which makes sense.
“We’re here for our appointment with Doctor Young,” I announce.
“Nineteen,” Frankie murmurs.
“Go right in.” She waves her hand at the door to her left.
“Thanks, uh,” I squint at the small nameplate in front of her. “Ms. Chen?”
“Yes.” The corners of her mouth tilt up.
I smile back even though Ms. Chen still hasn’t looked directly at me. I’m unsure why, and even though my inquiring mind wants to know, it’s a mystery for some other time.
Frankie fumbles with the doorknob. Just as I’m about to help him, the door opens, revealing a diminutive fellow with a fringe of dark brown hair ringing his mostly bald head. His orange and red plaid shirt is tucked into his sky blue chinos though he wears no belt. The breast pocket on his flannel sports a pocket protector containing several mismatched ball-point pens.
I'm not sure what to expect inside the office, but it sure as hell wasn't this. Every wall is hung with a different religion’s icon. Dr. Young doesn't seem to be nondenominational like Dr. Maris led me to believe. Instead he appears to b
e poly-denominational. There is such a thing as too inclusive. I never imagined I'd think something like that, but there's a first time for everything. And I guess it's really not a good idea to say never. After all, I never thought I'd be walking into a therapist’s office with another man, but here I am.
Frankie has a seat on one of the two single chairs. There's a couch, but it's small, loveseat-sized. The fact that he doesn't take it and invite me to sit beside him speaks volumes. Just a couple of weeks ago, I think our seating arrangements might've been totally different. Or maybe I'm just flattering myself, which is almost as bad an idea as saying never. Okay maybe it's a worse idea than that.
I sit in the middle of the loveseat, not giving a good goddamn what kind of statement that makes to Dr. Young. And it does make a statement. He's jotting notes on a clipboard he holds tilted away from us, supported by the edge of his desk. Dr. Young must have either a high office chair or some sort of booster seat. The front of his desk is solid, with a wooden panel over the knee space. Otherwise, I'd expect to see his feet swinging or supported on some kind of gargantuan footrest.
I just realized exactly how jerky I sound here. Dr. Young is in the business of helping people. Business. Helping. I don't feel comfortable with that, and I'm only realizing it for the first time. I roll my eyes, lean my elbow on one knee, and settle my cheek on my hand. The eye roll is from me to myself and I. Because I'm a total hypocrite right now.
"If neither of you wants to be here, the door is that way." Dr. Young jerks his wobbly chin at the door we just came in through.
"Jeez, Doc, you don't screw around." Frankie blinks.
"I'm one of two doctors in this very populous state who's in the know about what you people go through. I don't have time to screw around. Others who want my help are waiting."
"It's not that I don't want help." Frankie clasps his hands together, a gesture I've come to understand is his way of keeping them from shaking visibly. But my hearing is acute enough to discern the rustle of his sleeves against his twitching forearms.
"I understand that, but your partner there doesn't."
"I don't think you get it, Dr. Young." Frankie shakes his head. "Tino's just here because otherwise I couldn't have even set foot through the door."
"Some support system you got there, kid." Dr. Young’s smirk isn't unkind until he turns his head and looks me in the face.
"No offense, but I'd rather see a priest." There's too much hiss on the S in see and priest. I feel my fangs pricking at the inside of my lips, but I can't figure out what about this time, place, and company has got me so close to a Rage.
"Well, I'm not one anymore, but I'm the closest you'll ever get now that you’re vampire, Mr. Crispo." Dr. Young jots something else on his clipboard.
This is only the second time, and already I hate the gesture, wonder how anyone in therapy manages to cope with knowing everything they say is recorded and not even for posterity. In the church’s Reconciliation booths, that’s not an issue. I wish I was there, but it’s not happening.
"I have a problem with that."
"When you're ready to talk more about your issues surrounding religion, you can make your own appointment. This one is for Mr. Pickering."
"Fair enough." Frankie is closer to a mental health crisis than I am.
"Now Mr. Pickering Dr. Maris tells me you want to talk about your life as a Lamb."
"She's got it a little bit wrong, Dr. Young. What I want to talk about has less to do with being a Lamb and more to do with some of the impulses I've been having."
"I have to ask, do you think you're a danger to yourself or others?"
"Yes, to both. But not in the ways you might think."
"Then enlighten me, Mr. Pickering. Exactly how are you a danger? Begin with how you're endangering others."
Now it's my turn to blink. In my experience with law enforcement, psych evaluators usually want to start with the potential for self-harm and then ask about endangering others as a way of easing the suspect onto the topic of potential or actual criminal offenses.
"This isn't a criminal investigation, Mr. Crispo. If you don't stop making toxic assumptions, I'll have to ask you to leave."
"But I need him here, Doc."
"You don't. Vampires make some of the best foul-weather friends, but if you ever want your atmosphere to reach a state of equilibrium, you'll need a less volatile role model."
"Okay, then. I want him here." Frankie snorts. "Is that better?"
"Much. It's a step farther than I thought you'd go from where you're starting."
"I'm not his Renfield, if that's what you're thinking." Frankie shrugs.
I make my expression as blank as possible to hide the fact that I don’t know what he means by a Renfield.
"That's refreshing." Dr. Young is writing a novel on his clipboard at this point. I can't imagine why until he looks up at me. This time his eyes twinkle. "How long have you been a vampire, Mr. Crispo?"
"Since May of this year."
"Ah." He nods, his face easing out of its frown to assume a more neutral expression. "I'm beginning to understand."
"Understand what?"
"That this partnership between you and Mr. Pickering is not what I originally expected. Even doctors make mistaken calls. Now, sit still and let me do my work with your friend, Mr. Crispo."
I'm not repeating everything that transpired between Frankie and his doctor. This isn't because it's none of my business. It's because it's Frankie's business specifically, and it's up to him to detail the story of his struggle with this illness. Perhaps one day he'll decide to let you hear about it. But just in case he wants his privacy in the future, I'm letting him have it now. You can't untell a story, after all.
What I will say about the rest of this visit to Dr. Young's office is that, while he doesn't trust me, the doctor at least believes I mean well. He even invites me to make my own appointment with him. Which I do. I absolutely need his help.
It all goes back to what Old Man Fitzpatrick told me over the summer. My faith, my family, and my supernatural state are pulling me in three different directions, and I need guidance I can't get in a church.
Once the hour’s up, Frankie and I head out of the building and toward my car. Leaning against it is the last person I want to see. Yes, you guessed it. Sebastian Caprice.
"Don't you have a curfew or something?"
"Technically I do, but as far as my mom's concerned, I'm keeping it." Sebastian's grin is genuine, but I still don't like it. I guess Lethians are even harder to like than vampires.
"Are you here for another lesson with Dr. Maris?"
"I just got out of one. Now I'm waiting for Dr. Young."
"Dr. who?" No I'm not talking about the man in the blue box. I'm playing dumb. The last thing I want is for Sebastian Caprice to know we go to therapy.
"Never mind. I want to talk about your friend, Mr. Weintraub."
"Maury's not your business."
"I know he’s sick. Dying, even. And I want to help."
"There's nothing you can do. Unless somewhere in Carmine's old eaten memory there’s a cure for lung cancer."
"There isn't. But I've got some information you might want."
"I'll think about it." I snort.
"Tino, you don't even know what kind of dirt he's talking about.” Frankie rests his hand on my arm. “At least let him discuss it with you."
"Dude." I lean in to whisper in his ear, knowing Lethians like Sebastian don't have enhanced hearing. "Would you listen to a proposition from a Deep One?"
"No. But Raven would." The breath goes out of him like he’s deflating. “Listen to a Deep One, I mean. They did it to protect me.”
"Raven's not here."
"I'll talk to Sebastian for you if you want."
"It's risky, Frankie."
"Maury's your best friend, and he's in just as much trouble as me right now."
"If I fix DeCampo's problem, everything will work out without this piece of work�
��s help."
"When there's a fire in a building, you can't always rely on the door. You need to know where the windows are too."
"What?"
"It means you always have a plan B, C, D. Sometimes the whole alphabet. Let me talk to him."
"I won't stop you." I lean against the car away from Frankie's ear. “But I’m watching your back.”
"I'm going to negotiate with you on Mr. Crispo's behalf." Frankie grins as he steps toward the boy mob boss.
"You?"
"Yeah, turns out I come from a long and storied family of expert negotiators."
They step away from the car, two feet of space between them as they stand beneath the amber light illuminating this half of the parking lot. I open the driver's side door, reach in, and turn on the ignition in my vehicle. Also, the stereo.
The Music of the Night from the Weber version of Phantom surrounds me, obscuring the details of the conversation between the Lethian and the Lamb. For once in my life, I'm not the least bit curious. If Frankie wants to check all the emergency exits because it makes him feel better, he's entitled.
We’re in this together after all.
In the car, Frankie shuts off the music. He puts it in reverse, backs out of the space, then heads out of the parking lot and toward the road. Yeah, he’s driving. My arm’s still missing, remember?
"I don't understand why you'd put yourself in danger like that, Frankie."
"Sebastian's not as dangerous as you think he is." Frankie shakes his head, staring at his shoes. "He's new at all this, and still in high school, trying to do something with his life. Maybe he’ll make better choices than Carmine did."
"You've already been victimized by one horrible monster, why are you getting involved with another now?"
"Because when you've got monsters living in your own head, it's almost easier to deal with ones you can fight or run away from. At least you know they can be killed."
I ride in silence for a few minutes. Because I'm a monster too. If I ever Rage out and attack him, he won’t pull any punches. With the upper hand in a scenario like that, Francis Pickering will end me. And it’s likely he’d come out on top. He knows every strength and weakness vampires have.
